I can never stay around from my homage character to Hunter S. Thompson. Especially not when I get a wild story prompt like I did from my friends in Burbank.
Hoovertown Knights, by Alexander Willging
Word Count: 684
At some point, along the way, I stopped caring about how absurd all this was. It wasn’t every day that you force your brother-in-law to commit a daring heist on his own jewelry store in East Vancouver. Sure, call it insurance fraud. But what are such paltry crimes against the chance for immortality, babe?
Yes, dear readers, it’s your favorite madcap journalist Armand Boston, reporting live from the bushes outside a factory in North Canton, Ohio. I sit here, adorned in a Pith helmet and several thousand dollars’ worth of ruby necklaces. These accoutrements are my lone defense against what I can only assume is the dark magic protecting this lonely red brick palace.
“And yet,” my brother-in-law Phil muters at my side, “we could be doing this during the day. Could’ve taken the tour and everything—!”
“Hush,” I whisper back. “El Monstruo approaches!”
And sure enough, with terrible plodding steps, out comes the night watchman. I can barely see the brass buttons gleaming on his starched, pressed uniform. He sweeps his flashlight right over us, and my breath goes tight. Phil looks ready to grumble some more.
Perhaps he’s still mad about his smashed-up jewelry store?
In total silence, I reach into my pocket and pull out a tiara. A bit small, but Phil says nothing as I plant it atop his curly head. Still pissed, but hey, with this diadem, he’s now royally pissed.
Then, ignoring his grunt of protest, I ready the softball I had in my other pocket.
Right as that security guard turns around, I hurl that sucker hard as I can.
Plop! With a groan, the guard collapses. With a clatter, his ring of keys drop onto the pavement. And just like that, Phil and yours truly are making our way inside the main building for the Hoover Vacuum Company.
Most vacuum cleaner enthusiasts know about W.H. Hoover, the brand’s esteemed founder. But few know about the massive vault under his former office in North Canton, Ohio. Or the fact that, in 1945, a team of spies working for the Office of Strategic Services made a secret deposit into that same vault. Something big and heavy, shipping straight out of a Nazi base somewhere in Tunisia.
Of course you wouldn’t know this story, dear readers. The mainstream media wouldn’t suck so hard unless it were owned by the likes of Big Vacuum.
One elevator ride later, Phil and I are measuring our steps down a long, dark corridor. The jeweled medieval compass—the one that I stole from Phil’s shop when his boss wasn’t looking in all the chaos—points our way true. Within minutes, we are directed toward a turn in the corridor and arrive at a pair of giant, nondescript steel doors.
On the doors is a black circular port. Looks like something the size of a compass could fit there…
Well, you know how these things go, reader. Click, boom, doors swing open, lights switch on—
And there she is.
Atop a gleaming white pedestal, bathed in a heavenly afterglow.
A grail. The Grail. That gold cup that all the knights and archaeologists and conspiracy junkies have been hunting for centuries.
And of course they’d hide it out in freaking Ohio.
“Phil, mi compadre,” I whisper. “One sip of this, and we’re gonna live forever!”
“Um, about that.” Phil taps my shoulder. “I think we’ll need to. ‘Cause in case you hadn’t noticed…?”
He points to the glittering shelves. Good God, they’re all here. The Ark of the Covenant. The Hand of King Midas. The sword Excalibur. The Shadow Constitution that James Madison wrote up in 1812!
And, of course, guarding it all is a giant three-headed dog.
A big, black growling son of a gun.
“Right,” I say, not losing my cool. “Right, so… we go downstairs…”
“…And turn on every vacuum cleaner we can find.”
“And you married my sister. So what does that make you?”
Phil sighs. For, like, a minute.
“Go on three?” he asks.
I slap him across the shoulders. “Now you’re starting to use your head, man!”
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